Australian?
I stood in the sea for a few seconds, trying to get my head around the last two minutes, and watched her progress to her room. Finally, my body moved stiffly towards my door. About halfway, I could see her little collection on the table outside hers, the sound of her outdoor shower running. She was humming an out-of-tune ‘Hotel California’. Better men than me would have dropped their eyes, turned their heads, looked towards their own doors. Good men. Gentlemen.
Three steps further towards my room was all it took to glimpse legs being washed of sand. She was very pale; her golden hair had turned a light brown under the running water. Her legs were shapely, and she pointed her toes like a ballet dancer as she popped one and then another under the water. As she slid her thumbs into the last remaining item of clothing she had on and bent over to remove it, I almost collided with an umbrella. I picked up my pace and marched into my suite next door, dragging sand and water with me through the room, straight into the shower, which I ran on cold. A poor attempt to cool the need she had created in me. To cool the desire.
Crazy thoughts washed down the drain. Recklessness. Abandon. The desire, well, I could not wash that away, no amount of cold water could cool it, and I had to take care of it via another method.
A knock on the door that was heavier than was professional interrupted my daydream, bringing me back to the present. Hunger drove my pace to open the door; I was suddenly ravenous. I stood back, waiting for my ‘personal valet’, Oliver, to enter the room, which the man did. Without my breakfast.
‘Sorry, did you forget something?’ I asked.
‘My apologies,sir. There was a mix-up in the kitchen with your breakfast this morning.’
‘Right … well … I will just wait until you bring another.’ My tone barely contained my annoyance.
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Just Nick is fine,’ I growled out.
‘Do you intend on sitting in the dark in your room for the whole holiday, sir?’
I scoffed at Oliver. ‘None of your goddamned business.’
‘As your valet,sir, it is my job to ensure you sample the delights of the resort. As such, I have booked you into dinner this evening. At the restaurant, sir. Eight sharp. Also, you will tour the private island tomorrow, sir.’ The younger man stopped and took a breath before adding in a softer tone, ‘It’s not good to sit around in the dark on your own, Nick. You know that.’
My head dropped to the floor, where I studied the polished wood.Fuck me, if he wasn’t right.I looked up, giving his concerned gaze a quick nod.
‘Eight sharp. Don’t be late. I’ll send your breakfast as soon as it is ready.’ The young valet smiled. ‘Sir.’
Little shit.
Chapter Two
Abbey
I woke the next morning to a slight headache and daylight that was not soft enough to indicate it was early. I rolled across the enormous bed to reach for my phone, in a manner that made me feel like Chuck Norris’s stuntman, to the confirmation that it was actually ten in the morning. The ever-present gentle breeze rustled the curtains of the open door and I prayed there were no holidayers nearby that might have heard me drunkenly snoring my heart out last night.
I could not remember the last time I’d slept past six. At home, getting us up and out the door was a hectic routine. It turned into a veritable production line of tea, fruit, toast, salads and lunch snacks. Like all mothers, I was a passenger to the chaos since having Ella. The minute women return to work after having a baby, there is always an endless list of things to do or things you can’t get to and feel rubbish about. Admittedly, it was nice that this holiday was just me, but I was clearly going to have to relearn how not to be on a schedule, seeing as I was experiencing mild panic about the four hours I had lost.
There was a gentle knock at the door.
‘Room service.’
I wrestled my way out of the bed sheets and ducked to the bathroom to grab a white fluffy robe to cover my nakedness before answering the door. I was ready to redirect the delivery, as I could not recall ordering anything the night before.
When I opened the door, I recognised the hot porter. He was holding out a covered tray.
‘Hi,’ I said, a little embarrassed at my crisis last night. ‘I didn’t order anything.’
He was dressed in the hotel uniform, a navy button-down shirt, tucked into black trousers. He was young and extremely handsome with light-brown hair, tanned skin and bright-blue eyes that closed a little when he spoke, as if he was in a smoky room. He was fit in that does-not-miss-a-gym-session-and-likes-protein-and-probably-has-abs kind of way and, yep, twenty-five max, as first predicted. His English accent was lovely – more Hugh Grant than Michael Caine. The saviour from last night was English as well. It struck me that there were worse situations to be in life than on a beautiful island surrounded by gorgeous Englishmen with posh accents.
The porter’s name badge read ‘Oliver’.
‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘You were so upset yesterday. I just wanted to check you were all right.’
‘Welfare check?’ I asked, raising an eyebrow. I was in the hotel business too.
‘Yes. Most people are happy here. I’ve never seen anyone cry when I showed them to their room.’
